The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Still, he was glad of the challenge, for it took his mind off the burden he’d carried ever since he’d sent his stave flying to save Fynn from certain death at the silver cloak’s hand. He hadn’t meant to kill the man, but it had all happened so fast, and he’d acted on pure instinct.

  He felt sick with shame. His act had saved Fynn’s life, but it had taken another, which was an unforgiveable breach of the Wizard’s Code. And once another wizard or sorceress learned of this grave transgression, the best Whit could hope for was the loss of his staff and the privilege of ever again wielding magic. More likely he would lose his freedom as well, and perhaps even his life.

  But the worst part was the thought of how Master Morgan and Egydd would judge him.

  He assumed that exposure was inevitable. To swear his companions to secrecy regarding the nature of the man’s death would have meant condemning them too, for if any of the silver cloaks had survived the dragon attack and had borne witness to the incident, it was sure to be reported.

  He tried, without much success, not to dwell on all this as the river carried them through the heart of Karan-Rhad on the way to Langmerdor, their destination. The batteau raced between high rock walls that made the water thunderous at times, and he was relieved when finally, on their third day on the river, the narrow channels and churning rapids gave way to a calmer stretch of water. Due to the flooding, the Kerl, which was normally no more than a stream, had become a sprawling wetland.

  There were at least a few bright moments along the way. Bluebirds heralded the spring, and the sun shone through the budding leaves, dappling the dark-green river with dancing sparks. It was peaceful on the river, now that they’d left the fast water behind. They hadn’t seen another soul since Avedell, and might as well be alone in the Known World. It would be different, Whit knew, when they reached Sinarium, where the Kerl flowed into the Hysoss River. The principal city of Karan-Rhad perched high above the river, and the waterway would be heavily trafficked with boats transporting goods to and from the coast.

  Wren seemed to have considered this as well, for that night he made a suggestion.

  “I doubt we can be too cautious.” He glanced toward the bow where Fynn and Grinner were casting lines to catch their dinner, then dropped his voice. “If Roth believes Fynn poses a threat to his newly proclaimed status, he’ll hunt for our young prince—and you along with him—until his last breath. I think it might be more prudent if the three of you hole up somewhere on land before we reach Sinarium. I can find passage on to Langmerdor, then bring back men from Heversney to accompany you to Thraven.”

  Whit shook his head. “Out of the question. To begin with, how would you explain our need for protection? The fewer people who know about Fynn, the better.”

  Wren frowned. “I’d just rest easier if our escort were greater in number.”

  “Wouldn’t we all. But the less attention we draw to ourselves, the better.”

  Whit tapped the water with his fishing rod, hoping to attract some action from below the surface. He was rewarded with a fierce tug on his line, and after a brief struggle, he yanked a fat trout onto the deck.

  Fynn had luck as well, and soon three fish were spitted and sizzling over the fire. Whit was particularly pleased with the red flames he’d conjured up, which hovered in the air just above the deck so as not to set the batteau alight. Grinner, who was the only one of them who knew a thing or two about cooking, set them at the spit until the skin was charred and crispy. The å Livåri, too impatient to wait for the fish to cool, singed his fingers more than once as he plucked at the tender white meat, and when he pronounced it as good as milk rice, Fynn laughed so hard, tears stood in his eyes.

  Whit didn’t see the humor. Still, he’d found himself warming to Grinner over the past days. In his odd way, the fellow put them all more at ease in one another’s company. Grinner lacked training in the rules of etiquette, so he behaved as if there were no boundaries of status between them, calling everyone by their first names, and Whit, recalling that Master Morgan had recommended dropping the use of titles on the road to Mithralyn, proposed they follow Grinner’s example.

  Which, of course, didn’t mean anyone had forgotten about Fynn’s possible right to the Einhorn Throne. They all owed him fealty if he really was Urlion’s lawful son. And Whit suspected he was. There was no proof of his birthright, but in addition to Fynn’s resemblance to his father, there was something about him that encouraged a certain deference, something that ran deep. Fynn may have been raised by Helgrin barbarians, but he didn’t shirk hard work, and took his turn amiably at whatever labors they had to divide among themselves. He was good company, too—quick to laugh, kind-hearted. And it seemed he had a strong moral compass; Whit was often surprised by the simple wisdom in his words.

  When the fish was consumed, Whit extinguished the fire, for it was a warm night. The marshland brimmed with new life; peepers peeped and bullfrogs burumped in their nightly chorus, while fireflickers bumbled past, flashing their tiny lights as they dipped and skimmed over the dark water.

  The companions stretched out in their customary places. Whit, the tallest among them, lay in the middle of the deck where the boat was at its widest. It was the time of day he most looked forward to, for there was something about talking up to the stars that encouraged confidences and strengthened the travelers’ bonds of friendship. In fact it had been during one of these nightly exchanges that Whit learned about the å Livåri’s abduction as a little boy, and how he’d been forced to sleep in a cage along with his sister, who’d suffered an even more terrible fate.

  Grinner was, as usual, the first to speak. “Tell us a tale, then.”

  Wren set about relating the story of Elspeth Grimm, who had cruelly stamped on the bouquet of flowers he’d spent weeks working up the courage to give her.

  “Elspeth Grimm?” Whit failed to choke back his laughter. “But wasn’t she—”

  “As plump as a pudding?” Wren suggested. “Not until after her mother was given a place in your father’s kitchens. Before that, Elspeth was a little slip of a girl.” He sighed with what sounded like true regret. “It wasn’t long after I came to Cardenstowe Castle to squire for Lord Jaxe that she captured my heart. I must have been eight at the time. Anyway, after Elspeth trampled on my offering, I slept with the dogs for a week so that the other squires wouldn’t tease me over my tears. When your father found me in his kennels, I feared a beating, but instead he listened to my woeful story and then gave me one of his finest hound’s whelps. Told me I’d get far better treatment from her than I did from Elspeth. And he was right. Poppy was the best friend a boy could wish for.”

  Whit rolled up on his elbow. “My father saw you crying and gave you a puppy? I’ve have gotten his boot!”

  In truth, Lord Jaxe had never raised a hand to Whit, but he would have surely made short shrift of a lovelorn tale from his blubbering son.

  “Ah, but you were his heir,” Wren replied. “Of course he’d have been harder on you, knowing that one day you’d have to shoulder his responsibilities. That’s why our noble fathers send us to squire for other lords, so that we can be trained up without the burden of unreasonable expectations.”

  Whit didn’t know what to say to this. At one point, it had been suggested that he squire for his uncle, Lord Valen, but he’d kicked up such a fuss over going to Lorendale, it had never come to pass.

  “I remember Poppy,” he said. “A white bitch with liver ears. What became of her?”

  “She lived to a ripe old age and died in a patch of summer sunlight.” Wren’s voice was wistful. “No one could ask for a gentler passing.”

  “Helgrins pray to die in battle with their axes in their hands,” Fynn said. “I used to wish I would too, before… before I found out I wasn’t one of them. No—now that I think of it, it was even before that—it was when I was alone in that horrid cell. I just wanted to die, and I did
n’t care by what means. Until you came, Grinner.”

  The å Livåri grunted. “An’ now? What d’ye wish for now?”

  The water lapped at the batteau in the silence that followed.

  “I’m not a Helgrin,” Fynn said at last, “and I’m not really Drinnglennian, either. But it seems there’s not much difference between either folk’s thinking that a man’s worth is measured by his skill in battle. I know I’ll never find glory in war, and I guess I’ll have to learn to live with that. But it seems to me a man should be judged on something more than how well he dies, especially if it involves killing. If I could wish for anything… it would be that there were no raids and wars.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Foolish, I know, to think people can change what they’ve been brought up to hold to.”

  “It’s not foolish at all.” The words were out of Whit’s mouth almost before he knew he’d spoken. “Look at us. Who among us would have imagined we’d find ourselves… well, together like this?”

  Wren chuckled. “I certainly never thought I’d be traveling in the company of an å Livåri and a Helgrin.”

  “I ne’er spoke to bloody gentry ’til I met ye lot,” Grinner growled.

  They all laughed at this, then one by one they fell silent, until only Whit was left awake to ponder Fynn’s words. The lad had the right of it: Helgrins and Drinnglennians shared more in common than they might think.

  Then, as was his nightly ritual, Whit turned to his magic. It was a practice made all the more precious by the knowledge that he might soon be denied it. He emptied his mind and registered the flutter of his pulse against the thin skin at his wrist, letting the rush of the restless river fill his ears, breathing in the musty fragrance of damp earth. As he drew himself inward, the physical world fell away, to be replaced by a deep stillness. With each exercise of his art, the wait for its welling power seemed shorter, and when the magic came—coursing through him as a presence into which he melded and expanded, carrying him beyond the boundaries of his physical body to merge with the very air—the darkness was made tangible, erupting into countless points of light that glittered and sparked before his eyes.

  This was what Egydd had spoken of. This becoming one with his magic, this transformation from a human being creating a magical experience to a magical being living a human one.

  Whit had learned to illuse and to shadow-cast. Now his aim was to take the next step and become his shadow, so that if he chose to, he could entirely cloak himself from all living creatures’ sight, day or night. Once he achieved this, only one of the pillars would be left to master: the ability to harness the power to raise the Shield of Taran. Master Morgan could have helped him to master this most powerful of spells, but the wizard had left it to him to work out for himself.

  If you truly want to learn, Whit, you must let down that rigid emotional guard. This is the obstacle that prevents you from taking your magic to the highest level. Until you open yourself up to test the bounds of your spirit, you’re not ready for the Shield.

  At the memory, Whit’s magic fled, snuffed out like a candle, leaving only a bitter taste on his tongue. He tossed and turned for hours, trying to puzzle out what the old man had meant. But the mute stars above offered no answers.

  * * *

  The river ran steadily east over the next days. Grinner dubbed the boat the Petra, and she handled well, so they made good progress despite the “old bones,” as the å Livåri called the boulders lurking just below the surface. Closer to the confluence with the Hysoss, however, the Kerl narrowed, causing the current to swell, and Whit eyed the rushing water with growing alarm. Although he could use his magic to influence the wind and weather to a certain extent, he couldn’t alter the power of an entire river.

  “Rough water ahead!” Fynn called from the bow. “Grinner, you should get into your harness.”

  The å Livåri was the only one of them who couldn’t swim. “Me people an’ water don’t get on,” he’d protested when Fynn attempted to cajole him into the shallows for a lesson, and that had been the only time Whit had ever heard the man flatly refuse to do the lad’s bidding.

  Grinner grumbled, but he slipped the straps of the harness over his head and belted it around his waist.

  Their little batteau was fairly flying along with the river now. Whit tightened his grip on his pole, and it was all that he and the å Livåri could do to keep the boat from ricocheting off the high banks to either side. Plunging into a decline, the bow dipped low, then bobbed up, the boat listing sharply to starboard. Whit’s heart lurched with it, but the batteau righted itself and surged onward.

  Fynn’s next cry was lost in the river’s thunderous roar.

  “What?” Whit shouted back.

  “Old bones to port!” Fynn dragged on his sweep, straining to swing the batteau away from the telltale lacy rill of waves. Ahead of the scalloped water lay a bend, beyond which anything might await them, and Whit’s gut clenched at the growing thunder of the river.

  “Pole on the right!” Wren called out. “We have to stay on the inside of the bend!”

  The boat slithered and dipped over the chop, narrowly missing the whirling eddies that threatened to propel them against the rocks. It leveled out briefly, then shot around the bend and into a churning roil of white water.

  Wren yelled a warning from the stern, but Whit had already seen the foaming lip over which the river tumbled out of sight. There was barely time to think a spell, let alone cast one, but as the river dropped from under them, he drew breath and called the water back.

  Codyl dwùr!

  The batteau slammed down with a bone-jarring jolt onto the rolling wave he’d magicked up to fill the treacherous drop that would have sent them plummeting to their deaths. Whit was thrown to his knees as he urged the wave forward to carry them beyond the waterfall. His plan was to slowly release the spell, in hopes of settling the boat on calmer water downriver. But that plan was abandoned when he saw that Fynn had been swung into the air and was hanging on for dear life to the handle of his gyrating sweep.

  Whit cast himself forward and grabbed the boy, then crashed to the deck, his lungs emptying as Fynn slammed against his chest. The conjured wall of water thrust them onward, and he had no breath left with which to control it.

  Dwùr gwyn, he thought, willing the silent spell to come to power. Gwel il y dal. Water gentle, if it please you.

  Then he thought nothing at all.

  * * *

  A stabbing pain in Whit’s side compelled him to open his eyes. The sky overhead was a placid blue, and the batteau rocked gently beneath him. They were still afloat.

  “Lie still. Wren thinks you’ve broken a rib.” Fynn bent over him and held the elven flask to Whit’s lips. “Sorry I didn’t give you some of this earlier, but I was afraid you’d choke.”

  Whit drank deeply, and the knives in his chest drew back. “The others?” he croaked.

  “Wren’s fine. He’s gone to walk the banks, back the way we came.”

  “Why?”

  Fynn looked away.

  Grinner, Whit realized. “What happened?”

  “The harness must have snapped when the boat hit that wall of water. I didn’t see it happen, but Wren says one minute Grinner was there, and the next…”

  Whit’s stomach twisted. The wave he’d called up had cast Grinner overboard.

  The batteau listed, and Wren appeared at Fynn’s side, his expression grim. “Good to see that you’ve returned to us, my lord.” He turned to Fynn. “I’m sorry, I found no sign of Grinner. It’s possible that we’ll find… him downstream.”

  Fynn rose and took up his sweep, his shoulders rigid. “We should go on then, and make use of what light is left us.”

  Chapter 3

  Borne

  The emperor’s guard snapped to attention as Borne and Balfou, the Gralian emissaries, approached the throne room. As
Borne passed through the bronze doors, he drew an appreciative breath. Magnificent frescos ran the length of the vast chamber, depicting the storied triumph of Ul-Haramyn the Warrior. Pillared portals, edged with palmettes of ivory, led out to the expansive gardens from which buttery sunbeams streamed in to glint off the goldwork and shards of mirror embedded in the walls.

  Advancing beneath the vaulted ceiling in the shimmering light, Borne and Comte Balfou made the three obligatory obeisances before the side-by-side ebony thrones. Only when Zlatan Basileus, fourth of his name, bade them rise did Borne lift his eyes to the dais at the center of the hall.

  The Emperor met his gaze with dark, intelligent eyes. Zlatan had the high, regal cheekbones and aureate coloring of his ancestral line. Dressed in the eastern style, he wore a sashed silver robe over hyacinthine tunic and trousers, and his knee-high boots were edged with sable. Beside him, Empress Shareen, the Basilea, dazzled. Her skin was notably paler, and her teardrop eyes and the straight, midnight hair falling well below her slender waist spoke of her Far Taraian roots. She was attired in a ceremonial lurus of embroidered silk collared with cloth of gold. Her eyelids and hands were spiraled with henna, and strings of lustrous pearls bedecked her breasts, one of which was bared. Upon both imperial brows rested red-gold circlets studded with purple garnets.

  “We are pleased to have you returned to us, matar Comte.” The Basileus’s voice was a rich baritone, and his term of affection for Balfou impressed upon Borne the comte’s high standing in the Olquarian court. “We feared you had grown weary of Tell-Uyuk.”

  Balfou bowed low. “No man who has dwelt within the Seven Hills, illustrious lord, can leave it without yearning to return. Alas, my duty to Gral kept me away longer than I wished, but my time there proved most fruitful.”

  “So I’ve been informed.” The emperor shifted his gaze to Borne. “My hazar tells me you’ve brought a small company of soldiers back with you.”